(The following paragraph is read with an Australian accent.)

To watch the artist in its own environment is a rare opportunity, for these beings can be reclusive and nocturnal. When you come upon one, it is very important not to mock, feed, ask stupid questions of, or make direct eye contact with the artist. They are a volatile bunch, and any rash or sudden moves on your part may find you the subject of a piece discerning societal woes and disintegrating hope.

Or, you can visit Three Fish Gallery where a (tamed) Michael Branca can be observed (through August 6) adding to his heterogeneous body of work. "Caution: Wet Paint" is an open studio/evolving exhibition where Branca hangs his work as it is completed alongside older portfolio pieces. It is a great concept, throwing a dash of unknown into the often-static gallery stew.

Having gone through no trouble to dress for the public, Branca’s bare feet and pale legs (a testament to his dedication to the studio rather than the beach) are visible beneath the easel. Tom Waits’s five-pack-a-day voice grinds from a speaker and the quick smell of paint sticks with the humidity. Windows facing Cumberland Avenue make for constant people watching, or artist watching, depending on where you stand. The aura is that of an unexpected day off — stress free and easy. Branca’s quiet manner can be mistaken for aloofness. Yet, if you talk to him, you realize quickly he is a bit shy, but more than willing to talk about his work.

And his work is very diverse. If you know his stuff, it is because of the Real Dead Bug phase he went through a few years back. Remember the remake of da Vinci’s "Last Supper" with cockroaches as the diners? That was he. He has moved past that era (though he was sporting the T-shirt the day I visited him) into a more mature genre bridging the gap between his al fresco work from Monhegan and previous fantastical paintings.

As of my visit, two paintings hung completed and he was very close to finishing his third. "Grounded" is a simple ode to the simplest pleasure of all: walking barefoot in fresh grass. Two feet (not dissimilar to the ones standing to my left) find a moment of solace in Ireland-green blades. That’s all, just 10 piggies squishing the soft moist earth on a breaking morning. Ahhhhh. Feet are quite difficult to paint without them looking like James Caan’s character’s in Misery after Kathy Bates breaks them with a sledgehammer, but Branca’s are right on. And clean! Mother Branca is smiling somewhere.

The other completed work is untitled, but is a definite meshing of his minds. Mostly from a sketch of Back Bay (you recognize the spot — it’s when you realize even if you turn around, you have just as long to get back to the car at Hannaford) the tree has sprouted nubby feet, a pregnant tummy, and crazy Medusa-like twig hair. It is a great concept for a kid’s book: The day I turned into a tree. Branca’s whimsical imagination and subtle humor are skin-deep in this work, overlaid with his talent as a (use the term lightly) "landscape artist."

Having never painted outside before, Branca spent five TV-free weeks as a resident at the Carina House on Monhegan Island. Here, his every waking moment was walking the wooded paths and studying the ocean. The body of work that resulted is a tribute to the beauty of the Maine Island. His choice of true pigment oil replicates the vividness of the area and he doesn’t blend, so the colors are separate and isolated, like the inhabitants. The subject in "Cliff Trail Tree" is a distant cousin of the one in the Back Bay work. Electric roots overtake the earth and flow like a chocolate river across the canvas. Branca’s brushwork mimics finger-painting; he defines each change of bark and shadow with an indulgent glob of paint.

In his Monhegan works of the ocean, such as "Pulpit Rock," he grasps onto the continuity of the current, following water into a small cove, watching how it turns unphased from the dead end back into the waiting arms of the sea. The little details painted into this body — from the shifting of grays attached to an oncoming storm to the mass swaying of trees atop Whitehead — are evidence of the hours spent just noticing the world around him before he even thought about painting. He saw balance. He saw simplicity. He saw sustainability. And he put it all on canvas.

The time he spent in Monhegan made him a better painter. Follow his showcased work like a timeline and see, currently, there is more depth and thoughtfulness in the subject matter as well as in the technique. Compare his large portraits of space to the latter work and the former seem one dimensional and contrived despite their monstrous muse.

Being in a space as the artist paints behind you is intimidating. For both parties, I assume. At the same time, it adds physical fullness that so rarely accompanies a gallery stop. You walk away with an appreciation of the work because you see the clear blue eyes squinted in concentration and the bare feet planted firmly on the paint-speckled floor. So go. Observe. And bring him some cookies; just don’t stick your fingers in the cage.